Arisen
by Writer Awakened
Summary: You do not go to the Grimleal. The Grimleal shall come to you.


_Arisen_

- O -

He could never forget the night the Grimleal came for his family. They wore dark cloaks adorned with unfamiliar symbols and their eyes were red—not red as with blood, but red like lanterns suspended in village windows at night, bright and glowing and piercing. Their skin was dark and grey and scaly-looking, marred with uneven blotches of purple. Their breaths were heavy and their exhalations as black as soot and smelling of sulfur. There were only two who came for them, but Father was ill and Mother not a fighter, and he no more than ten. Father and Mother knew if they took him by force they could do nothing to resist. His parents stood in the frame of the door, trying to shield him from the Grimleal's blank stares. The visitors only stood, without emotion, without fear or anger or glee, without sadness or regret or hesitation.

"Master Grima desires you."

"The Grimleal calls you to eternal life."

The words were cold. They each were dark and monotone and sounded alike. He never understood why they smiled.

Father refused. They were servants of Naga. They would resist the Grimleal's evil, for as long as they could.

Later he thought that maybe if Father had just stayed silent...maybe if Mother had begged, or offered them money, or weapons, then they might have gone away. Maybe if they hadn't been so damn proud. Maybe if they had just ran. Instead one of the Grimleal hacked off Father's head, and the other plunged a curved knife into Mother's chest. He wanted to run away, but he couldn't. In the doorway they stood over him. How could they smile, he wondered so very often. Their eyes were sad and distant, so why did they smile? If this were a dream, he wanted to wake up.

"Master Grima desires you."

"The Grimleal calls you to eternal life."

He could not refuse. What could he have done differently? He might have died _then_. The knife still dripped with Mother's blood. Father's head lay at his feet. Grima called to him. If he'd had a choice, the Grimleal wouldn't let him take it. The two men hoisted him up by the arms and led away from his home on a hill, crying and pounding his fists helplessly. They'd had enough and the man with the knife slashed quickly at him and his consciousness bled away.

From then he couldn't remember things quite clearly. From then every time he thought on what had happened in the time since it seemed like whole pieces were missing. Holes that were months, maybe years deep boring into his memory, and what remained was so strangely alien to him, like looking into an old familiar room through a pane of soundless glass. He remembered a few things, though.

He remembered a sorcerer leering down at him, the day after the Grima's summons, in a near light-less cavern somewhere in the middle of anywhere. He remembered being scared and alone, and the sorcerer silently clamped his hand on his forehead, cradling a dark book in his free arm, and began to chant. Shrouded in shadow, his face concealed, the warlock's fingers were clammy and moist with sweat cold as ice, but his grip was tight and his fingers dug into his scalp so hard he was afraid his skull would pop like a melon. But soon the sorcerer had finished his chant, and a heavy, dark aura enveloped the boy. It was strangely warm and made his body tingle, and then it turned cold, so very very cold. Soon he found he no longer needed to cry, and even the pain had subsided, and it felt like he was floating—_floating_, drifting serenely on a cloud high above the world, where nothing could bother him. For the first time since the Grimleal came to him, he was happy. Was this what Grima was? Was this what the Grimleal had all come to revel in? The coldness had left and the warmth had returned, and everything around him was bathed in a gentle, red light. For brief moments, in bits and pieces, he heard someone speaking to him, the voice of an angel.

"Sleep, sleep, my child. Shh shh shh. All is well, all is well..."

It was Mother's voice! He tried to call out for Mother but his words would not come. He would have wept but the tears would not come.

"I am here with you. I will never leave you. My son, my beautiful child. I will never abandon you."

Was it the power of Grima? he wondered. It had been months since he'd first met the Grimleal, and for the first time in months he had a reason to believe in miracles.

From there he spent every waking moment with the Grimleal. Grima had called him to eternal life. He supposed it would be many long years to see if those words proved true, but if anything, Grima had given him new gifts. The Grimleal had taught him to fight with a sword and now he practiced every day, laboring at every free moment to improve his skill. Years passed, years marred by spots in his memory. All he wanted to do was fight. In the barracks, cold and cavernous, he listened to the reports from the frontlines. The Grimleal was legion, the Grimleal was many, and they grew every day, more recruits his age and even younger, their eyes familiarly red. They were like him. They were _like_ him. He was not alone here. They were like him, and like him, Grima desired them as faithful servants.

He couldn't remember when his mind became such a fog. He remembered being nearly silent for years at a time. It was always just too difficult to speak. Every word he tried to say was like vomiting brimstone. It was easier to remain silent and listen patiently to the sorcerers' words without question. The burning was only Grima telling him it was better to listen than speak out of turn.

One day he woke and his body was no longer his. At first he thought he was only sleepwalking, caught somewhere between waking and dreaming, and that he'd trained so well in the sword that he could fight and kill even in his sleep! But days passed, and then weeks, and he realized that he no longer had to think about anything he did. His arms and legs moved of their own accord and his senses now only bore witness. Grima now worked through him; Grima guided him. He no longer needed to choke on a mouth of ash and magma to speak, or tell himself to rise in the morning and sleep at night. He longer felt pain, or anguish, or coldness, loneliness or fear or doubt. Grima would do that for him. He needed no one else. Not the memory of his Mother nor of his Father. Grima would care for him. He needed only Grima. His mind was but a dozing passenger, his body alien and separate, like looking into an older familiar room through a pane of soundless glass.

Sometimes it scared him. Grima worked through him now; his body now belonged to Grima. But his mind, his mind was still his own. His mind was a slave, and he was a prisoner in his own body, unable to feel or sense but for his eyes, the warm red sight given to him by the Great Dragon. Sometimes it terrified him. He wanted to slam against the bars of this cell with his fists, but it was now entirely out of his control. The pleasant warmth had left him and now he was cold and empty. Sometimes he caught glimpses of his hands, grey and splotched with purple, and his arms, scaly and rough. It made him panic. Living in this body, in this worthless, foreign body was beginning to anger him, infuriate him. Get me out! he thought. In his mind he screamed, screamed at his body to listen, that maybe if he thought or wished or hoped or pleaded earnestly enough, that maybe it would listen. After a while it wasn't even worth it. It was better to enjoy every kill. His body was a gladiator, and he was the spectator, in it for the sport. Fine, fine, he wasn't going to let it get the better of him. That was what his enemies wanted. They wanted to steal the immortality that was rightfully his. His! Or why else would Grima have sent the summons? They had trusted him to resist. Resist the urge to forfeit his one chance at eternal life.

One day his body led him to the courtyard of Plegia Castle, rallying a host of others just like him, quiet but for their hellish expirations. His allies _rallied_ around him. They listened dutifully to every word, every word he did not speak. His consciousness floated somewhere, watching and waiting. In the courtyard there stood young Prince Chrom of Ylisse and his guard, caught completely unawares. He felt a rush of glee, and if he could have, he might have squealed aloud in joy. While his comrades leapt and butchered his guardsmen, he stared down the young lordling himself, sword at the ready.

Prince Chrom charged, the man who might finally deliver him sweet death. Somewhere deep within him, fighting within him, buried alive beneath faded memories and dragon's breaths, a desperate voice cried out to Chrom: Make an end of this nightmare, man. Oh gods, make an end to this nightmare!

But Grima was calling. Grima was calling him to eternal life. That was all he wanted anymore, all he cared for, all he knew. Somehow, Grima would make it all right. Warm blood washed over him and the prince of Ylisse screamed in agony as the steel carved deep into his flesh. A wisp of a smile crept unbidden to his body as he slashed and slashed, and soon the screams died bloody in the prince's throat and he fell silent. The dream was not yet over. It was not yet time for his awakening.


End file.
